


It isn't Paranoia

by Zeandra



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley has an imagination, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeandra/pseuds/Zeandra
Summary: When they came, they came for Aziraphale.In retrospect, they probably should not have given Crowley quite so much time to prepare.





	1. Chapter 1

When they came, they came for Aziraphale. 

Crowley had always suspected that would be the case. He hadn’t dismissed the possibility that Hell would come to collect, but for all their bureaucracy, Hell had a soft spot for rebels. There was no fondness in it, mind, but Crowley knew they must have been reluctantly impressed by the demon who had found a way around holy water. Impressed, and frightened enough to wipe their hands of him and never look back. 

There had always been the possibility that Hastur might have come calling for personal vengeance and Hell would have looked the other way, steeping in plausible deniability if it hadn’t worked out but ready to throw a promotion Hastur’s way if he’d actually succeeded. But the more time passed, the less likely it became that Hastur would ever show. He was not a particularly clever or subtle demon, and would have taken the first opportunity rather than biding his time. Occasionally, Crowley would fondly remember the way Hastur had shrieked when he’d doused Ligur with holy water, and mused whether Hastur now wondered if he’d avoided death by plant mister only because Crowley hadn’t wanted to risk exposing his trump card. That doubt alone would be enough to put off any demon on a permanent basis.

No, it was Heaven who could never leave well enough alone. Heaven in all its self-righteous glory that would nurse its grudges and inevitably grow balls big enough to do something about it. They’d document nothing officially, doing everything under the table, all clandestine meetings and backchannels, because on some level they knew their own hypocrisy. They’d never face it, never confess it, and they’d certainly never sign off on it. But their fear would lose potency as their anger at the continued insult grew. They’d seethe and they’d plot, and eventually, they’d come.

Crowley knew this. Crowley had anticipated it, staring up at the ceiling for long hours in lieu of his typical indulgence of sleep, contemplating the various ways they might go about it. While Heaven was still gathering their courage, Crowley had long been making plans and putting precautions in place for every possible tactic he could imagine. And Crowley had quite the imagination.

So when Heaven came for Aziraphale, they were woefully unprepared.

It was Gabriel himself who dropped out of the sky on huge white wings, right there in the garden of their cottage. It was a dramatic and unnecessary gesture, of course. Gabriel could have simply appeared where he pleased with no flying involved, but he’d chosen this particular method, landing directly behind Aziraphale, because of the intimidation factor.

Reluctantly, Crowley would admit it had been effective. Aziraphale had dropped his teacup with a startled gasp and Crowley’s heart had dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. But Crowley’s own instinctive, aborted movement to intervene had been entirely superfluous the moment Gabriel laid hands on his angel.

The plan, Crowley was sure, had been to abduct Aziraphale back to Heaven too swiftly for a fight. And once there, they could have taken their time, experimenting, figuring out how Aziraphale could be harmed or killed or permanently imprisoned without anyone else the wiser.

They probably wouldn’t have sent their highest-ranking archangel if they’d known.

Sigils were such fascinating things. Crowley had spent a long time studying them in preparation for various things throughout his long life, and Aziraphale had some very interesting tomes on some of the more ancient ones. One of them was nothing more than a crumbling scroll, written in Enochian. Crowley suspected Aziraphale himself had penned it, a long while back, as a sort of record of any spells he could recall that had been placed on the weaponry used in the War. Some were used to make the metal of the swords or spears indestructible. Others were used to grant the owner protection, or return the weapon to his hand if lost.

One summoned flames.

It had been designed to summon _holy_ flames, of course, but it came as little surprise to Crowley that if you broke down that bit of the sigil and inverted it, it became the sigil used for _hellfire_ instead. It was all the same language, when you boiled it all down. Any angel or demon who knew how to read them could have added and subtracted and combined the symbols to make new spells, like stringing together code. But as far as Crowley knew, no one ever did. No one but Crowley.

The difficult part had been getting Aziraphale to part with his garments, one at a time, for long enough to do the work, but Crowley had come up with the excuse that he wanted to imbue them with a little magic to protect them, knowing how fond Aziraphale was of his clothing, and recalling the paintball incident. Aziraphale had been touched, looking at Crowley in that particular way that made butterflies take flight in the demon’s stomach. And he hadn’t been lying, exactly. He had done exactly as he’d said he would, using some of the strengthening sigils on the seams and such, he’d just also done more.

He had double, triple, and quadruple-checked his work before weaving it seamlessly into the fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket, his waistcoat, and even his bow tie. It was a simple enough spell in the end, thankfully. The trigger: the touch of any hostile angel. The result: a quick burst of concentrated hellfire. And throughout the spell, Aziraphale’s True Name, tied to it as its owner and master. Crowley had taken extreme care to thread it through the bit that summoned the hellfire especially. In triplicate.

The Archangel Fucking Gabriel had time enough to jerk back with a shocked, horrified scream before he was engulfed. Crowley recalled an insincere smile on that chiseled face and a command to _shut your stupid mouth and die already_ and wished a little wistfully that it would have taken longer.

Aziraphale had also jerked back in the opposite direction with a cry, stumbling to get away from the sudden demonic heat, but it never once reached for him despite apparently _originating_ from him. He looked stunned and horrified. Crowley grabbed him in a single lunge and pulled him further away, into the house, even as Gabriel began to crumble into a pile of ash.

Aziraphale stuttered out incoherent questions as they moved past the sliding glass door, eyes fixed on the place Gabriel had been only a moment ago.

“Angel! Aziraphale, it’s alright, you’re alright.” Crowley did his best to keep his voice even in an attempt to calm Aziraphale, hands planted firmly on his shoulders.

Aziraphale finally tore his gaze away and fixed it on Crowley.

“What. Was that- That was _hellfire_. That was Gabriel.” His words slowed from their babble as he processed Crowley’s lack of surprise. “Crowley. What did you do?”

Crowley explained. He had to stop Aziraphale from tearing his beloved coat off, assuring him in no uncertain terms that it was perfectly safe. Thankfully, Aziraphale’s attachment to the coat ultimately won out over more pragmatic concerns, but the angel nonetheless spent some time vacillating between yelling his outrage at Crowley over the base desecration of his clothing and yelling at him some more about neglecting to tell Aziraphale about the precautions. It all boiled down to the same thing, really, but in Aziraphale’s mind they were two distinctly separate issues.

Notably, he did not yell at Crowley for destroying Gabriel. If anything - though Aziraphale would surely never admit it - the angel was secretly rather pleased about it, judging by the odd gleam in his eye when he glanced back at the new stain on their patio. And after 6,000 years, Crowley had become something of an expert in Aziraphale’s unspoken vices.

Still, Aziraphale eventually found the will to scold him about it in more general terms.

“Crowley, you just _killed_ the highest ranking archangel-”

“ _We_ killed the highest ranking archangel,” Crowley corrected. Aziraphale glared at him rather severely.

“ _You_ , since I didn’t know a thing about it, but I suppose it’s well beside the point when word gets back to Heaven.”

“In all fairness, I had no way of knowing that wanker would come here personally instead of sending his lackeys like last time.” Not that he was displeased about it.

“Was rather bold of him,” Aziraphale admitted, before shaking his head lightly and getting back around to his point, “The point is, they can’t possibly let this go. They can’t pretend it didn’t happen or hush it up. They’ll have to acknowledge it sooner or later and they may well send the whole _Host_ after us!”

“Maybe,” Crowley admitted with a slight frown, “but I doubt it. They’ll have to admit he’s gone, yes, but to publicly admit that he was killed by a Principality wielding hellfire? A Principality they knew to be _immune_ to hellfire? It’s a PR nightmare. They’ll probably come up with some glorious tale about how he died in the line of duty and nurse their wounds a while before they try again.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I do hope you’re right, Crowley. But what if you’re wrong?”

So Crowley proceeded to tell him about the many, many other things he’d been up to since they’d moved into the cottage. After all, they could hope for the best, but Crowley was well prepared for the worst.

And in the meantime, Crowley discovered that archangel ash made great fertilizer for roses.


	2. Chapter 2

It turned out neither of them were quite on the mark when it came to predicting Heaven’s reaction. For one thing, it wasn’t angels that came the second time, it was demons. And it was Crowley they went for, as soon as they’d busted down the front door.

Crowley didn’t let his befuddlement at this new development stall him for more than half a second. While he’d figured Hell was officially out of the equation, Crowley nonetheless prided himself on being a paranoid bastard. And paranoid bastards are hard to catch with their pants down.

Persuading Aziraphale to provide him with holy water the second time around had been much easier, after it had come in so handy with Ligur. It also helped that they were living together now. Aziraphale seemed much less concerned about Crowley mishandling it, deliberately or otherwise, when the angel was present.

This didn’t actually stop Crowley from handling it in ways that Aziraphale hadn’t initially anticipated. Crowley had fessed up about it a few days back, after the incident with Gabriel. He would always treasure the memory of the way Aziraphale’s jaw had slowly dropped as he’d explained that the holy water was no longer in the safe, but in the water chamber of his high-end Spyra One water gun.

With a max range of 40 feet and designed to shoot individual high-pressure ‘bullets’ of water, the Spyra was an ideal weapon for Crowley’s purposes. It was lightweight enough to lift and fire with one hand, and the exceptionally long barrel and high velocity at which it fired reduced Crowley’s chances of getting hit with any spray or spillage to virtually naught.

Taking all possible precautions was the purview of any sane demon, however, and so it was a simple enough matter to miracle some rubber gloves onto his hands as he lifted the water gun out of its hiding place behind the couch. He only hoped Aziraphale would forgive him the mess he was making of the entryway rug as he took aim and fired with prejudice.

Crowley quickly cultivated a new appreciation for the phrase, “like shooting sitting ducks.”

Sensibly, the last few demons through the door immediately turned tail and tried to flee, screaming, leaving the melted remains of their brethren behind. Crowley mercilessly shot them in the back one by one, unwilling to allow much leeway in the matter of either survivors or witnesses. The first one to run ended up being the final one alive, and he might have escaped down the walkway and out the front gate before Crowley could catch him, had he not run straight into a returning Aziraphale’s fist.

His angel really did have theater-worthy timing, on occasion. And he had a meaner right hook than most people ever expected.

“Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself,” Aziraphale suggested cooly to the stunned demon, who was doing an admirable impression of a turtle on its back. Crowley stuck his gun very near his face and the demon wisely stopped trying to get up, or even move at all, aside from putting his hands up in surrender.

“Michael sent us!” he blurted. Crowley blinked, the entire incident rearranging itself in his mind and taking on a new and alarming picture.

“ _Michael_ sent you?” Aziraphale asked, eyebrows reaching his hairline.

“After _me_?” Crowley followed, feeling equally surreal.

“Yes- No! Er, that is- We were told to capture the demon Crowley, and then, uh-”

“And then?” Aziraphale prompted, icily. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever heard quite that tone in his voice before.

“A-and then torture him to force the surrender of the Principality Aziraphale.”

The silence that followed was heavy and complete. Even the birds took the hint and failed to sing. Insects did not dare to buzz. The only thing that moved were the sweating demon’s eyes, flitting nervously back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale’s stone faces.

“And what,” Crowley finally asked slowly, something harsh and grating in the back of his throat, “were you going to get out of this deal?”

“We’d get to keep the angel.”

“Keep me,” Aziraphale echoed tonelessly.

“To play with.”

Crowley shot the demon in the face. Thrice.

Aziraphale met his eyes over the sizzling, puddled corpse and took a shaky breath.

“Backchannels,” he said quietly, sounding angry and afraid all at once.

Crowley nodded grimly, his face set in hard lines. “We don’t go anywhere alone from here on,” he said. 

Aziraphale merely nodded and held out a hand for the gun. “I’ll take this. Don’t want it dripping. Put some tea on for us, will you?”

He did not yell at Crowley about the entryway rug. He just miracled the whole thing away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was blatantly inspired by certain tumblr posts. And it's pretty short, but I'll be making up for that with the next one. The Spyra One is a real water gun that was available on Kickstarter, but I don't know if they became commercially available after their campaign. They're pretty badass, though.


	3. Chapter 3

After the demons, they’d barely left the house for weeks. A soberly determined Aziraphale had unrelentingly persuaded a deeply reluctant Crowley to detail just how a group of demons might have _played_ with an angel they’d been given wholesale permission by Heaven to _keep_. Needless to say, it had involved an inventive and unending variety of torture. Crowley had watched, concerned, as something hard and disquieting had grown in the back of Aziraphale’s eyes.

Steering the conversation away hadn’t been an option, but Crowley had successfully diverted to a related subject. Namely, just how involved and cooperative Hell had been in this little plot of Michael’s. The demons had been low-ranking, and Crowley had serious doubts Beelzebub would have sent them. Beelzebub would not have been on board at all for the mere promise of Crowley’s pain and a single angel for fun and torture. Not when they had undoubtedly caught wind of Gabriel’s recent demise. They were not personally invested enough for such a high risk operation, at so little possible gain for Hell’s bottom line.

But Hastur probably was.

Aside from the obvious personal vendetta, he was high-ranking enough that Michael would have submitted to dealing with him. He had the means, the motivation, and nothing to lose save some disposable lackeys. For Hastur, it was low-risk, high potential reward.

Aziraphale had a steely look about him as he processed that, sipping his tea, and Crowley fretted. But nothing much happened at first as they puttered around their well-fortified cottage.

Two weeks after that, there had been a polite knock on their door. Aziraphale had opened it, come face to face with an angel he didn’t know by name, and very nearly activated the binding circle Crowley had drawn under the doormat. But the petite, female-bodied angel had thrown her hands up in the universal gesture of surrender, looking panicked at whatever she saw on Aziraphale’s face.

“I come in peace!” she squeaked.

Crowley almost snorted.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “And who are you, my dear?”

“I’m Nathiel. I’m sorry to intrude, but it’s important.”

Aziraphale invited her in for tea. Nathiel had never had tea before, but tried it with delighted enthusiasm at the ‘charming human custom’ and the ‘clever use of herbs,’ and Aziraphale warmed to her. Crowley observed all this with an indulgent air as he sipped his Earl Grey.

Eventually they got around to the subject at hand, when Crowley ran out of patience for tea and asked pointedly why Nathiel had come knocking.

“Oh, right!” Nathiel said. “Well I work in the Corporations department, but I’m friends with Amriel, who works in Communications, and we chat, you know? There’s been a lot of rumors flying around Heaven recently, about Gabriel going missing and Cerviel being in some kind of royal snit about something-”

Aziraphale started at the name. Cerviel was the ruler of the Principalities. They had never been particularly close, but Cerviel took his responsibilities seriously and had been a very decent boss before Aziraphale had been assigned to report directly to Gabriel.

Next to Aziraphale, Crowley silently mouthed, ‘going missing.’

“-so Amriel’s been... _paying attention_ , seeing what she can suss out about it all.”

There was a fascinating sparkle in Nathiel’s eye, something almost devilish, and Crowley was thrilled to realize that the girl was a horrible, unrepentant, thirsty _gossip_. He could picture her and her good friend Amriel getting together regularly for ‘lunch’ breaks they didn’t need and exchanging every juicy scrap of information that had passed their desks.

“Anyway, a few days ago she takes me aside and tells me there have been some irregularities in documentation recently. She was sure something had just dropped by the wayside, you know, fallen through the cracks, so to speak.” 

Crowley was sure that was quite the convenient excuse to snoop, yes. Judging by the polite little sip Aziraphale took of his tea, he was in full agreement.

“So she dug a little more and found evidence that Michael has been making some unauthorized calls. She took the liberty of tracking them, postmortem.”

Nathiel paused ostensibly for a sip, but more likely for the drama, and Crowley pounced.

“And was she only able to track them in the general direction of Downstairs, or could she track them directly to Hastur’s mobile?” Crowley asked in a deliberately offhand manner.

Nathiel choked on her tea but recovered admirably as Aziraphale patted her on the back. She looked at Crowley like Christmas had come early. Like she smelled blood in the water.

“Hastur?” she asked, her tone disturbingly thrilled, “One of the Dukes of Hell?”

“Yes,” replied Aziraphale. “Mind you, we don’t know for _sure_ -” He sent Crowley a look of mild disapproval.

“-But it’s our best guess, and it makes the most sense,” Crowley finished, shrugging at Aziraphale unapologetically.

“Why does that make the most sense?” Nathiel asked, eyes flickering between the two of them. Her fingers twitched around her cup as if she wanted very much to be live-texting this whole conversation to her good friend Amriel.

Exchanging a look, Crowley and Aziraphale began to explain.

It took time, more tea, and a lot of questions from Nathiel, but eventually they got through the whole bloody story without confessing anything too personally incriminating. They glossed over a great many things, like the length of their association, and stuck to the good bits. The bits with their mutual love for Earth and humanity driving them to band together to try and save it, the failed executions - (“They tried to _execute_ you?! Without a trial in front of the Host?!” exclaimed Nathiel, and, “So d’you think you’re immune to holy water and hellfire because you love... _Earth_ so much?” she presumed all on her own, hand over her heart, with a peculiar emphasis as she looked between them) - and most recently the failed assassination attempts. (“Gabriel is _dead_?!” and, “Oh! Crowley got between you and Gabriel and used hellfire to protect you?” in that same strange fluttering tone that put something in Crowley on guard.) 

Honestly, Nathiel made so many of her own assumptions that they barely had to work to steer her toward the correct general conclusions with all the wrong details. She was practically vibrating out of her seat once they caught her up to the latest.

“Oh, this makes so much more sense now! We really wondered, you know. The apocalypse was off without explanation, and then the next day we all got a memo that Aziraphale was persona-non-grata for official business reasons and not to be contacted.”

Aziraphale made an offended noise.

“The timing couldn’t be coincidence, but it didn’t make any sense. And then Sabrathan, who works in Reception, swore up and down that just before the announcement went out, someone in her department had smuggled some lesser demon in and out of Heaven without any paperwork, and it was cleared by Uriel.”

Crowley wondered, fascinated, if there was a whole cabal of bored, lower-level angels in secretarial positions who had established an unofficial club of some sort. Or a spy ring, really. And this must have been the most tempting bit of scandal they’d happened across since the _rebellion_.

“Then the rumor started that the demon Crowley was _also_ persona-non-grata from Hell. The Principality and the demon who were stationed permanently on Earth, both going officially no-contact after the failed apocalypse? Together? It all seemed very… star-crossed.” She concluded with a breathless smile, looking at the two of them with a kind of vague fanaticism.

_Oh Lord_ , Crowley thought blasphemously, certain pieces of the puzzle belatedly slotting together. Aziraphale flushed and adjusted his bow tie.

“My dear, this is all fascinating,” said Aziraphale, “but surely you didn’t go through the trouble of fetching yourself a body from storage and coming all this way just to satisfy your curiosity?”

“Oh!” Nathiel exclaimed, finally coming back around to the point. “No, I wanted to warn you. It all seemed really fishy, of course, and then with Gabriel, uh, _missing_ , and Amriel finding those unlogged calls to Downstairs, we were becoming alarmed, so we asked Verchiel, who works in Michael’s office, if he could keep an eye out. Well, let me tell you, the words weren’t so much as out of our mouths before he dragged us into a storage closet and let loose about all the things he’d overheard in the past couple weeks. He’d have told us sooner if he could have, but Michael has her offices on lockdown.”

“Lockdown?” Crowley repeated, incredulously.

“Yeah, no one in or out. Only we’re friends with Jaoel, who guards that wing, and he let us in once we gave him the good news that Hermesiel wanted to meet with him clandestinely that night behind one of the celestial spheres,” she smirked.

Aziraphale made a noise of scandalized delight. Crowley didn’t care one way or another about Jaoel and Hermesiel’s sordid affair, he just wanted to laugh hysterically that Heaven’s security had holes the size of whales because the underappreciated peons were colluding right under the noses of upper management.

“Anyway, he told us that Michael has become… _unhinged_ , is the exact word he used.” Her smile dimmed, and she shifted uncomfortably. Crowley’s humor died a quick death.

“He said that she paces and shouts at everyone, that she’s been making all kinds of calls without documentation and doing things behind closed doors. She’s supposed to take over Gabriel’s duties, but it doesn’t seem like she’s touched them. She hasn’t touched _hers_ either, which makes you wonder just what she’s been so busy with. And then Jaoel said he’d overheard your names, when she was on the phone with someone. He said she sounded like she was spitting, she was so angry. She’s going to try to kill you again, isn’t she?”

Nathiel looked smaller somehow, and a little frightened. Crowley inexplicably missed the gossipy fangirl.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale softly.

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, but his mind was working a mile a minute. “But maybe there’s something we can do about it.”

Nathiel looked at him, hopeful. Aziraphale looked at him too, with a familiar fondness.

“What are you plotting, Crowley?”

Crowley smiled slowly.

“I assume you have a mobile, Nathiel?”

Nathiel did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Nathiel is all of us.
> 
> I haven't been able to reply to the comments on the last chapter, but I want you all to know you're amazing and I really appreciate all the positive feedback.


	4. Chapter 4

The third time was not at all charming.

Neither Crowley or Aziraphale could guess, after Nathiel’s enlightening visit, just what was coming next. An unhinged archangel was capable of… oh, anything, certainly. And their little plot with Nathiel required time to work, and wasn’t altogether a sure thing. But they couldn’t hide out in the house forever, and so eventually made their way into town for a leisurely dinner and nearly three bottles of very fine wine.

They were more than a little tipsy when Sandalphon made his appearance. Funnily enough, that was probably what saved them.

Sandalphon had a broad and hefty corporation, so it was surprising that he could appear so silently out of absolutely nowhere. And for all that he was clearly acting as Michael’s flunky, he was hardly mindless. For one thing, he had taken the precaution of wearing leather gloves. This had the very unfortunate side effect of making him look distinctly like some kind of mob enforcer from a movie, but even more unfortunately made him unaffected by the spells Crowley had put on Aziraphale’s clothing. It was for this reason that Sandalphon was able to come up behind them, grab Aziraphale by the back of his collar, and throw him brutally upon the ground several feet away.

Crowley spun in angry alarm, but it was an unsteady movement, and he lurched unexpectedly off to one side. Sandalphon’s fist glanced off his cheekbone rather than nailing him directly in the jaw, dislodging his sunglasses and sending them flying. He swayed and stumbled back, more startled than pained, and did not go down.

Aziraphale was already getting up, boneless and limber, less injured than a sober person rightly should have been by the treatment he’d just suffered.

Never one to dismiss an advantage, Crowley neglected to sober up just yet. If this was going to be a physical battle, loose limbs and dulled pain could be helpful.

And then the crazy angel pulled a gun.

It was a revolver of all things. A six-shooter, although Crowley assumed that didn’t mean much, as it probably had unlimited rounds. In a very surreal moment, Crowley half expected Sandalphon to make a threat in a bad Italian accent, and was prepared to mock him mercilessly for the whole shtick, before his internal alarm wrenched him out of his ridiculous musings and prompted him to _dodge_.

It was not graceful by any means, but the bullet missed its mark significantly as Crowley fell sideways and scrambled back and away. The gun went off again, and again, the sound echoing off the buildings around them, witnesses and bystanders miraculously absent. But Crowley was still moving, quickly and without any kind of coordination, a snake attempting to navigate with legs and stay mostly upright as he ran. 

It’s hard to hit a moving target even when it’s moving predictably. It was thankfully impossible to hit Crowley at all if one was trying, which Sandalphon was.

Crowley had just made it around the edge of the building, seeking cover, when Aziraphale tackled the other angel with an outraged cry. The gun went clattering to the ground and a struggle ensued, but Crowley didn’t stick around to see whether or not his angel could gain the upper hand.

No, Crowley had a plan.

Granted, this plan was less sophisticated than some of his others, but one could only do so much when it came to booby trapping the whole damn town against celestial beings. Summoning and banishing circles would be disturbed or washed away, weapons stashed in strategic locations would be found or meddled with. Almost all things left in public were temporary or unreliable.

But the Bentley was forever. At least it was if Crowley had anything to say about it.

It was also a five minute walk to where they’d parked, but the journey was made far faster by way of the electric lines. Crowley made it in under five seconds. Unfortunately it took precious further seconds, almost half a minute, to drive back to Aziraphale in a furious roar of vintage engine and squealing tires. The radio clicked on, blasting the deep bass of Beethoven’s _Another One Bites the Dust_. 

Crowley prayed; not specifically to God or any other being, but more of a general silent shouting at the universe that he’d get there in time. It was an uncompromising demand that Aziraphale would be alright for this long, _or else_.

Crowley was going ninety when he turned the final corner. This should have been an impossible feat on the acute angle of a narrow country road, but Crowley had already decided in no uncertain terms that he’d had enough of physics for a single day. Well, except for this next part.

Sandalphon had retrieved his gun and was approaching a low stone wall that Aziraphale had just gracelessly dived behind. He turned at the sound of the Bentley. Crowley could see the whites of his eyes in the headlights, realization coming too late. Perhaps in that last second of extended time, Sandalphon could also see the glowing yellow of Crowley’s, or the sharp gleam of his teeth, an expression of malicious glee.

The squishy corporation of an angel, no matter how mafia-like, was no match for the Bentley’s chrome grill. The sound they made as they impacted was a thunderclap. Crowley silently apologized to his car as the upper half of the body rolled over the hood and into the windshield with a mighty crash.

Crowley slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching halt.

The body rolled back off, thumping to the ground with a dull splat.

The windshield wipers came on jerkily, smearing blood across the webbed remains of the glass.

 _And another one gone, and another one gone!_ the Bentley sang triumphantly.

Crowley opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle, patting the steering wheel fondly. He side-stepped some of the viscera that had run under the tires. He kicked aside a hand encased in a leather glove as Aziraphale clambered back over the wall.

“How’s _that_ for lending weight to a moral argument?” he quipped with false cheer, moving to assist Aziraphale.

“Quite a bit more effective than the gun in this case, my dear.” 

Aziraphale sounded a little breathless as he brushed off his jacket. He was thoroughly dishevelled, had a bruise across his cheekbone that was already fading, and a split lip that would be gone in a few more seconds. Crowley miracled away the blood with a thought.

“You alright?” Crowley asked, to steady his nerves.

“Quite alright. He might have done more damage had he not been so preoccupied with crowing about the fact that you’d run off. Kept nattering on about your demonic nature. Of course I knew you were going for the Bentley. And you, Crowley? Did he…?”

Aziraphale looked him over carefully, searching for evidence of bullet holes.

“Fine. He’s a crap shot.” Crowley was not certain if this was true or if he was just a champion of drunk dodging, but the insult felt good on his tongue.

“Mind you,” said Aziraphale, sternly, “this is the last time I approve of drunk driving.”

Crowley tisked, but didn’t disagree. He was rather more sober than he had been anyway, despite his best efforts. Adrenaline, probably. Aziraphale looked to be in the same boat, a little furrow between his brows indicating he was no longer quite so pleasantly pissed and wasn’t remotely happy about it.

“We ought to ring Nathiel and let her know about this one,” Crowley said. “And then I suggest we go back to drinking. I’m not about to let that tosser ruin our good night.”

The remains of the tosser in question were already gone by the time they clambered back into the car, the body transporting itself back to Heaven as they were wont to do after a discorporation. A few small miracles and the Bentley was good as new, pristine and bloodless. Crowley reluctantly sobered up completely and they were on their way home. The radio softly played _I Love My Car_ as Aziraphale phoned Nathiel on speaker.

“What the _fuck_!” Nathiel yelled shrilly, in lieu of a normal greeting. Crowley belatedly remembered that Nathiel worked in Corporations and winced.

“Let me guess,” he drawled, as Aziraphale blinked owlishly at the profanity. “You just got Sandalphon’s corporation back.”

“Is _that_ whose this was?! It’s all over my desk!” Her voice had a mournful, howling quality to it.

“So sorry,” Aziraphale replied, looking chagrined. “He _was_ trying to discorporate us both at the time.”

They could hear Nathiel taking deep breaths for a few moments, which was vaguely alarming since angels didn’t actually need to breathe.

“I’ve _had_ it! It’s bad enough he was trying to kill you, but my desk..! All my perfectly organized files!”

Angels had very particular priorities.

“Can’t you just miracle it away?” asked Crowley, cautiously. Aziraphale looked at him sharply, shaking his head in warning.

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Nathiel hissed in an alarmingly vicious tone that could have given any demon a run for its money. It reminded Crowley distinctly of how Aziraphale had sounded that one time a customer spilled coffee on one of his first editions. Crowley wisely dropped the subject.

“He’s not getting a new body any time this century, I don’t give a damn if _Michael_ has anything to say about it!”

Aziraphale apparently decided this was prudent opportunity to direct the fuming angel onto a related topic of conversation.

“How is that coming along, by the way?” asked Aziraphale.

True to form, as soon as Nathiel had gone home, she’d repeated every last thing she’d learned to every ear that would listen, in every clandestine nook and cranny of Heaven. All her Spy Friends, as Crowley had taken to calling them, had naturally repeated it to any ear that hadn’t heard it directly from Nathiel. Consequently, the gossip had burned through Heaven like hellfire.

Cerviel, Aziraphale’s former boss, had previously been reported to have been ‘in a snit.’ It turned out this was caused, unsurprisingly, by Heaven’s abrupt ousting of Aziraphale without explanation. Although he hadn’t been under Cerviel’s direct command in millennia, a Principality was a Principality, and Cerviel felt strongly that he not only should have been informed in greater detail about whatever incident had seen Aziraphale more or less cast out, but that he should have been consulted on the decision in the first place.

When presented with new information on the subject, Cerviel went from being ‘in a snit’ to gathering every last Principality in Heaven, under his command or not, and forming a militia that was now loudly demanding an inquest into the recent actions of certain archangels.

Aziraphale was touched.

More than half of Michael’s current staff had abruptly found new positions in other departments, and the Choir was asking very pointed questions about Gabriel’s supposed ‘extended leave’. Uriel had made herself scarce. She was still somewhere in Heaven, but not at her desk and not taking calls.

There was also some mention of a secret fan club, but Crowley was trying very hard to forget about that part.

The point was, the scandal had grown too large to be brushed aside, and soon something would need to give. Still, it was less the precursor to a rebellion than it was the precursor to a corporate reorganization of sorts. Which was just as well, really.

“It’s progressing,” Nathiel replied. “Not as fast as we’d like, but you know how it is up here. I imagine they’ll call Michael in for questioning in the next couple months or so, just as soon as they’re done filing all the forms in triplicate.”

That was good news and bad news. Good news because it was exactly what they wanted to happen. Bad news because a _cornered_ unhinged archangel was by far worse than just a plain old unhinged archangel.

Still, Crowley appreciated the information. “We’ll watch our backs. I just wish we knew if Hastur was going to try anything again.”

“I, uh, might have some insight on that.” Nathiel offered cagily.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at the phone. “ _Do_ you?”

Crowley noted his tone was distinctly more approving than any other angel’s might have been. Nathiel also noticed, and it seemed to spur her on.

“Well, you remember what I told you about that demon who Sabrathan in Reception saw smuggled in?” Her voice had gone hushed, a faint echo indicating she’d probably crammed herself into a closet. “Turns out she had the chance to confront him in a waiting room, probably while _certain angels_ were in the middle of trying to kill you, Aziraphale. They _might_ have exchanged numbers.”

“Satan bless Sabrathan,” Crowley muttered smugly, and Aziraphale shot him a dirty look.

“Turns out,” Nathiel continued, “this demon works for Hastur. And he’s been either discorporated or tossed in the Pit by Hastur more times in the past year than he has in the past thousand. Apparently he told a joke Hastur didn’t like while they were in Megiddo and it all went downhill from there. And Sabrathan said Hastur doesn’t really know how to use a mobile, so this demon has to help him dial Michael every time, and every time Hastur gets frustrated about it and sets him on fire. He’s so cross about the whole thing he’s scheming to get Hastur tossed into a vat of holy water at the first opportunity.”

That sounded very promising to Crowley. “What’s his name?”

“Uh, I dunno. I didn’t ask.”

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale chided. “You mustn’t be so dismissive just because he’s a demon.”

“Right, sorry Aziraphale.”

Crowley stared at his angel in fond exasperation.

“Eyes on the road, Crowley.”

Crowley dutifully returned his attention to the road with a mocking wiggle of his head, which Aziraphale ignored.

“Anyway,” said Nathiel, “we’ve been keeping in touch with this demon and he says there’s some drama in Hell right now. Nothing like Heaven, but everyone’s been more discontent than usual since Armageddon didn’t happen. They stay in line when Beelzebub or Dagon are in the room, but as soon as they leave, there’s even more backstabbing and disregard for order than normal. Hastur’s getting away with murder - or, well, attempted murder - mostly because no one’s paying attention to what a duke is up to when so many lesser demons are causing problems by fudging records and being lazy and pretending like they’re doing work when they’re actually skiving off in Bermuda.”

“Bermuda?” asked Aziraphale, confused. Crowley was equally confused.

They could hear the shrug in Nathiel’s voice when she responded. “Dunno. It’s the hot holiday destination for disillusioned demons, it seems.”

Well how about that.

Crowley resolved to look into it later. It _was_ a lovely island. Maybe they’d pop in for a lark come winter. In the meantime, there were more immediate things to contemplate. Crowley began musing aloud.

“Beelzebub told everyone I’m off-limits. If Hastur actually managed to kill me he’d be commended anyway, but he hasn’t even come close. And thanks to his deal with Michael, he’s aiming for Aziraphale too. Outside of the next big war, deliberately targeting an angel isn’t _officially_ permissible. And Hastur is working _with_ an archangel to accomplish it, without anything to show for it except some permanent casualties for Hell. No matter how you cut it, no one will be commending him if this gets out and both Aziraphale and I are still alive. But the lords of Hell will need proof before they cut a duke off at the knees.”

“What kind of proof?” asked Nathiel.

“Not sure yet. Let’s have our new demon friend keep an eye out and we’ll play it by ear.”

“More importantly,” interjected Aziraphale, “is that we have advanced warning of anything Hastur might be planning next, if possible.”

“I’ll let Sabrathan know,” said Nathiel.

They hung up soon after and the short remainder of the ride was spent in companionable silence. Crowley was still mulling things over in his head, trying to understand the shape of things when the image it was forming only made partial sense.

It wasn’t until they’d settled in the front room, a cheery fire blazing in the fireplace and wine glasses filled that Crowley broke the silence by voicing his thoughts.

“What is it that Michael has against you? Other than the obvious bit with Armageddon.”

Aziraphale looked baffled. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Think about it. None of this makes sense. Thanks to Nathiel, we know that Michael and the others have been doing this behind Heaven’s back. There’s no evidence of off-the-record approval. Michael should be backing down in the face of the madness it’s creating in Heaven, but she’s getting _worse_. She’s always struck me as more pragmatic than this. The only conclusion I can come to is that this is _personal_ for her.”

Aziraphale took a long sip of wine and pursed his lips. Crowley admired the plump, wet look of them in the firelight.

“I can’t imagine,” he said after a while. “I can’t think of anything I might have done to Michael to garner this sort of reaction.”

He looked troubled by the thought, and downed the rest of his wine as if it were as alcoholic as juice. Crowley lifted the bottle to pour his angel some more, but Aziraphale waved him off, shaking his head and putting down his glass. 

“I think I’ve had enough wine for tonight.”

“Was she in love with Gabriel?” Crowley tried, setting aside his own glass. Maybe the first attempt had been all Gabriel, and it had been his death that set Michael off. But Aziraphale shook his head.

“No. If she was, it was never apparent to anyone.” He locked eyes with Crowley, reflections of gold flame flickering in the deep blue of them. “And you and I both know how difficult it is to keep that sort of thing hidden.”

Oh yes. Crowley knew. Mood shifting, Crowley dropped the conversation. It was a dead end anyway, if Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything. 

Aziraphale waited for him to cork the bottle and snap the glasses back into the kitchen. Crowley did so without having to be asked, not once sliding naked yellow eyes away from the burning gaze that held them. Crowley leaned closer and brushed his fingers down the soft swell of Aziraphale’s cheek, across the line of his jaw, coming to rest on the warmth of his throat, where Crowley could feel Aziraphale swallow.

“Take me to bed, Crowley.”

Crowley didn’t hesitate to oblige.


	5. Chapter 5

They got the advanced warning that Nathiel had arranged for them, if twenty minutes before they were attacked could be considered ‘advanced’.

Still, it had been well worth it.

Nathiel had called them from yet another broom closet, babbling rapidly about how she’d just gotten word from Downstairs that Hastur had met up with Michael only a few minutes ago, just after one of Nathiel’s Spy Friends reported that Michael had visited Heaven’s armory and left, unauthorized, with a weapon she hadn’t filed paperwork for.

It seemed Michael had finally reached the end of her rope.

With some hasty assurances to Nathiel, Crowley and Aziraphale hung up and looked at each other. In mutual, silent agreement, they headed out into the garden.

Although Crowley believed wholeheartedly in putting the fear of himself into his houseplants, most outdoor plants were wilder, fiercer, less easily cowed. And Crowley didn’t grow begonias. He preferred varieties like ivy, and blackberry, and mint, all of which liked to creep and sneak when you weren’t looking, multiplying madly and going where they ought not. They enjoyed testing the veracity and extent of Crowley’s threats, and only remained in check for so long after a harsh pruning before they tried again. Crowley appreciated their tenaciousness and rewarded them when they attempted to choke each other, vying for territory. 

But there were less common miscreants in Crowley’s garden as well, of the kind that most people tended to _remove_ from their property if they ever encountered them. There was the poison ivy lurking beneath the oak tree, and the stinging nettle by the little pond, and even some hogweed along the fence line. But there were two plants that were his greatest pride. 

The first was a manchineel, sometimes known as a ‘beech apple’ tree, which Crowley appreciated not only for the irony, but also for its incredibly potent toxins. Eating the fruit was deadly, but even the innocuous bark burned the skin on contact. It was the worst tree in creation to seek shelter beneath during a downpour, as it cheerfully oozed poison sap and created its own version of acid rain.

The second was his gympie gympie. By all rights it should not have grown at all in England’s climate, but Crowley had been determined to successfully cultivate the leafy Australian species commonly known as _the suicide plant_. A famous botanist had once described its effects as ‘being burned by hot acid and electrocuted at the same time.’ The pain it inflicted was so severe and so long-lasting that some people chose to end their own lives rather than endure months or years of slowly abating torture.

Naturally, Crowley was sold.

Nurtured and grown from seed by a doting demon that whispered sweetly to them of malice and pain, his babies were even deadlier than their normal kin. More importantly, they were loyal. The gympie gympie never dared sink its fine little needles into Aziraphale’s skin as he stroked its broad leaves fondly and told it how lovely it was. (It only ever preened, lushly and proudly, at the praise.) The manchineel kept its poisons discreetly to itself as Crowley and his angel leaned back against its trunk and shared a bottle of wine. (If it ever began to drizzle while they drank, the water merely slid off the suddenly denser canopy and harmlessly away from the couple.)

That was where they sat now, settling a blanket beneath the manchineel as if they were simply picnicking. Aziraphale miracled up some tea to calm his nerves, and they listened to the frogs and insects as they waited.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Michael appeared in a blaze of lightning. In her hands, she held a long sword. Crowley felt his eyes drawn to it, and his jaw nearly dropped as he understood what he was seeing. It was not a holy blade, designed to kill demons. Nor was it a demonic blade, designed to kill angels. It was impossibly _both_.

The holy and demonic forces forged deep into the metal were visibly at war with one another. It was as if two magnets were being forcefully pushed together as they were trying to slide apart. The whole construct was barely secured in a very resentful temporary balance. It would hold just long enough to be used against them until, in all too short a time, it was bound to fly violently apart and take any bystanders with it. It was an abomination. 

Crowley was reluctantly impressed.

Wordlessly, cautiously, Crowley and Aziraphale rose to their feet. The tea and the blanket disappeared.

Aziraphale was looking between Michael and the sword, aghast. Crowley could tell he was struggling to find words, appalled at the clear evidence of Michael’s detachment from anything resembling sanity.

Whatever was forming on his lips died as the archangel leapt at them, swinging the abomination down at them in a high arch, aiming between them. Instinctively, they dodged in separate directions.

Crowley realized too late that the swing had been designed to separate him from Aziraphale. In quick succession she swung at them again, forcing them both to dance back a decent distance, further forcing them apart. 

“Please, Michael,” Aziraphale tried, a little desperately. “Why are you doing this? It can’t be worth it! Whatever I’ve done that’s so offended you-”

Aziraphale was cut off by a bitter laugh. It was such a wretched sound, it startled both he and Crowley.

“You? I don’t give a damn about you, traitor, beyond the fact that no one Above will miss you.” This was an untruth, but Michael didn’t seem to know it. She turned her eyes onto Crowley then, dark and full of hatred, and swung the sword around to point at him.

“But _he_ loves you.”

“...What?” Crowley breathed, stunned. There was something truly terrible, truly _un_ angelic in Michael’s expression, and it was directed in its entirety at _him_.

“ _You_ killed Ligur!” she snarled.

Aziraphale made a noise, an inhale of speechless revelation. Crowley dared to glance over and meet his eyes, which were as wide and dumbfounded as he knew his own must be.

He felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He didn’t feel badly about killing Ligur, but he felt very badly, very abruptly, for Michael. Crowley could see all too easily how such a relationship might have come about. Ligur could be a charming bastard when he was so inclined, and with the buttoned-up Michael looking to establish backchannels, he’d have cheerfully taken the bait but set some of his own, for insurance. Michael wouldn’t stab him in the back if she felt affection for him. But Crowley had known Ligur a long time, and couldn’t see him genuinely reciprocating any emotion more positive than the respectful regard he’d shown to demons of equal status, like Hastur.

If this had been love, it was almost assuredly unrequited. He wasn’t about to say as much to Michael, whose face was screwed up in a rictus of vengeful pain.

Aziraphale raised a hand and took one tentative step closer, an aborted movement that Crowley knew was going to be his attempt at sympathy and comfort. Crowley took a breath to wail at him, _no, don’t, run_ , because he knew exactly what kind of retribution this was meant to be now, and knew Michael wasn’t going to be talked down from it. 

She proved it, before either of them could say a word.

“You killed my demon,” she said lowly, “so I’m going to kill your angel.”

She turned, and lunged for the horrified Aziraphale.

It might have been the end of everything, if not for the plants.

Both the gympie gympie and the manchineel had been preparing for Crowley’s promises of inflicting fire and pain their whole lives. And they understood everything the archangel was saying. They took exception. 

When Michael moved, so did the manchineel. With deadly accuracy, it brought a wispy branch down hard into Michael’s face, discharging its toxic sap into her eyes and all over her skin. She screamed shrilly, brought up short as angry boils formed everywhere the sap touched, burning her vision away.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to run, but Michael was not an archangel for nothing. She failed to drop her weapon as Crowley had hoped, giving him no opening. Instead, she brought it up unerringly to slice the offending branch away. Her wounds healed all too quickly, her vision returning and locking onto Aziraphale’s retreating form immediately.

_Fast_ , Crowley realized with a sinking feeling. She had done something to increase the speed usually limited by a human body, and she had already closed the distance Aziraphale had gained even as Crowley rushed after them.

The manchineel flung sap at her in her wake, but the archangel didn’t flinch a second time when it hit home, ignoring the burns it made on any bits of exposed skin. Aziraphale was almost on top of the gympie gympie, but Crowley could see he wasn’t quite going to make it in time.

Shifting into a snake was not something Crowley liked to do. It wasn’t that it was difficult - quite the opposite, actually. He’d once confessed to Aziraphale that he didn’t like to do it much because he was afraid he wouldn’t remember how to change back. That was mostly true. What he found more difficult to explain was that he was afraid he wouldn’t remember because it was so _easy_ to be a snake. It was comfortable. It felt right in ways that being man-shaped sometimes didn’t. And when one was so perfectly comfortable, remembering how to have legs became more and more like a chore the longer he slithered on his lovely red belly.

But Crowley _preferred_ being man-shaped in the end, even if hips were odd and walking upright on two legs was one of the most unnecessarily complex bits of anatomical function the Almighty had ever conceived of. Crowley liked having legs, and feet, and opposable thumbs.

At the present moment, none of that mattered. Bridging the distance was quick work as he lengthened and lengthened and _lengthened_ , his huge serpent form nearly as long as a lorry from nose to tip. He only had to surge forward, to strike, and there was no distance left between them at all. His fangs sunk deep into the meaty part of Michael’s calf, pumping demonic venom into the wound.

It was the work of a split second to bite and retreat, Michael’s startled cry ringing pleasantly in Crowley’s ears, but Michael was still much, _much_ too fast. She swung the sword around in a wide arc, and though Crowley was flinging himself backward from his attack with all the quick grace of a born predator, the razor-sharp edge of the blade bit deep into his scales.

Crowley collapsed in shattering pain. He coiled defensively but had no control over the movement; it was an instinctive, automatic spasming of serpentine muscles. His vision was black at the edges and hazy everywhere else, rendering him effectively blind. Someone was screaming and he thought it might have been him.

Aziraphale shouted his name, but Crowley couldn’t tell if it was in fear for him or if he was crying out for help. 

Frantic, Crowley forced himself to shift back to human form, the wound an agony that shifted with him and punished him for the offense. It settled into his upper hip, as if the blade had glanced off of bone and dug deep right where it met the fleshy part of his side. 

Crowley had to imagine very stubbornly that he wasn’t going to pass out. He _willed_ his vision to clear, his senses to cooperate, and with terrible reluctance they obeyed.

It was Michael who was screaming. She’d startled away from Crowley’s bite just far enough that she’d moved right into range of the gympie gympie. The malicious plant had performed with admirable gusto, smugly piercing any bit of Michael’s skin it could reach with its devious little baby-fine needles. 

Michael was swinging her sword at it wildly as she retreated, barely nicking a handful of leaves that got instant revenge by releasing more of their featherweight hazards into the air to float unrelentingly toward her. Aziraphale, unharmed but trying to circle around her to get to Crowley, was also forced to dodge back and go wide.

Michael was undoubtedly trying to heal herself, but she couldn’t see the miniscule needles, didn’t know she needed to miracle them away. The hundred tiny wounds closed as Michael demanded, but that only broke the wicked barbs off at the shaft, burying the rest of them deep inside the skin. Between that and Crowley’s potent venom, her body was utterly compromised. One way or another, she would be discorporated soon.

Unfortunately, that was the only thing that was going in their favor. Crowley had barely gotten clear of Michael, and she’d now fled right back into him. Her heel hit his shin as she nearly stumbled over him backwards, but she caught herself and turned.

Her face was crazed, fury just edging out the pain as she looked down upon the serpent of Eden. She raised the sword as Crowley tried to drag himself away.

He knew he wouldn’t make it. Even gritting his teeth and forcing himself to move despite his injury, he wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t have it in him to shift again, not even just to shrink himself down to the size of a pin. Michael had too much reach and more strength, despite everything, than all of Crowley’s bullheaded determination could muster.

Perhaps if she destroyed Crowley, she’d leave Aziraphale alone. She’d no longer have a reason to harm him. He clung hopelessly to the thought as he looked upon his death, refusing to close his eyes against it.

The flash of white feathers barely registered in Crowley’s peripheral vision before Michael’s arm was wrenched and twisted with incredible force. She cried out as her forearm snapped, the weapon dropping mid-swing from numb fingers. 

It fell neatly into Aziraphale’s waiting hand.

Aziraphale moved like someone who had never forgotten how to be a soldier. He _looked_ like a soldier, wings spread wide and proud from their brief flight. His face could have been cast from marble, an expression of unyielding hardness replacing all the feeling it once held. And his eyes burned with a cold wrath far more potent than Michael’s as he turned the blade in his hand and ran her through.

Michael looked about as stunned as Crowley felt. The garden fell silent. After a brief, frozen moment, the archangel made a small sound and unraveled.

There was no other word for it. Her body remained intact, though fatally wounded. But the essence of Michael was visible to any eyes that could comprehend metaphysical form. It came undone, a handful of threads at a time until it was an avalanche, and then it was gone.

Michael’s empty corporation crumpled to the ground, and Aziraphale released the sword as it fell. He looked down at the shell that had once been an archangel, an inscrutable expression on his face. Crowley thought he looked like he perhaps wanted to be remorseful, but couldn’t bring himself to actually feel the emotion.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley tried, but what came out was a choked whisper. Aziraphale spun to look at him in alarm.

Crowley himself was confused for a moment, both at the loss of his voice and the dismay on Aziraphale’s face, until he looked down. Oh. 

Blood was running unchecked out of the wound, and Crowley realized numbly that the pain hadn’t abated, but diffused across his entire being to the point he could feel it up to his hairline and down through his toes. A blessed blade. A cursed blade. Damage not only to his physical body, but to his true self.

He felt Aziraphale catch him before his head could hit the ground, heard him call out Crowley’s name, panicked. Crowley wanted to say something, anything, but his lips didn’t move. The darkness pulled him down and claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you guessed very accurately about Michael's motivations last chapter and I had to bite my tongue to keep from confirming them.
> 
> Yes, the manchineel tree and the gympie gympie are both real. I'm sorry. If there are any Australians reading this who need help getting out, blink twice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, the last chapter is finally here and I'm so sorry it took so long! I've bit off more than I can chew this quarter and my workload is so massive I can't even afford to take a full day off a week. But with much perseverance, we've finally made it to the finish line! Enjoy!

Crowley was laying in bed when he woke, feeling bleary and stiff, mouth parched. Grimacing, he shifted, eyes cracking open against sunlight, working his tongue in his mouth to try and get some moisture back in it.

“Crowley?”

He turned his head and there was Aziraphale, looking worse than Crowley had ever seen him. His hair had grown out just enough it was beginning to curl over his ears, which would have been fetching had it not been so obviously neglected. And though Aziraphale didn’t sleep nearly as often as Crowley did, and didn’t require it, he looked so wrung out he might as well have been a human who hadn’t slept in weeks. But a wave of relief washed visibly over Aziraphale’s face as their eyes met, his hand squeezing tightly around Crowley’s own.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley croaked. He frowned at the scratchy quality of his voice, an expression Aziraphale mirrored before conjuring a glass of water and holding it gently to Crowley’s lips. Crowley sipped and it helped. He tried again.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and it came out better this time as he looked over the angel in concern. Aziraphale let out a high, incredulous noise.

“Am _I_ alright? I’ve been terribly distraught, but I wasn’t the one who was injured. How do you feel?”

Crowley considered the question with the gravity it deserved, sitting up gingerly in bed. He fully expected there to be pain. Aziraphale surged forward to help him, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Crowley felt stiff and sore and his hip and side ached where he’d been wounded, but there was no sharp pain, nothing so discomforting that he couldn’t sit just as easily as he’d lain. He felt all the better for being upright, in fact, though he was surprised to be awake and alive at all.

He relayed this to Aziraphale as he shifted the covers and pulled down the elastic band on his pajama bottoms, revealing an unblemished hip. The physical wound was healed, leaving only the metaphysical to contend with. “How long have I been out?”

“A little over a month now,” Aziraphale responded with an edge of fading misery, his fingers stroking almost reverently over the unmarred skin.

“A _month_?!” Crowley looked at Aziraphale in disbelief, but Aziraphale just nodded, his expression pinched.

Crowley softened and brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips, kissing it reassuringly. “Have you been holding vigil over my sickbed all this time, angel?”

It was like some Victorian novel, he thought. It was hopelessly endearing, despite the cliche.

Aziraphale looked a trifle miffed that Crowley was making light of it, but all the more relieved that Crowley was feeling up to doing so. 

“I did have to leave from time to time, just for a few minutes here and there, but I couldn’t bear to leave you alone long.” He looked pained and Crowley squeezed his hand in silent apology.

Aziraphale gave him a soft look and continued. “Nathiel’s come by twice you know, fretting nearly enough to make me feel silly about my own anxieties. And Cerviel visited twice himself, mostly just to check in-”

Crowley was already holding up a hand to stop Aziraphale.

“Hang on, hang on, Aziraphale.” Crowley was aware he was missing some pertinent information. “I think I’ve got a lot to catch up on and I’m not doing it here. If I’ve been here a month, I want out of this bed before you pick up steam. Let’s take this down to the kitchen and have a cuppa.”

Crowley would have preferred brandy, but he suspected by the way that Aziraphale was already fussing as Crowley swung his legs out of bed that the suggestion would not go over well.

They made it to the kitchen with no incidences, only a slight wince from Crowley as they descended the stairs, Aziraphale hovering in case he stumbled. He didn’t. He felt a little less stiff for the short walk and they ultimately settled at the kitchen table, black tea with cream and sugar in hand.

“Tell me what happened?”

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath and shifted to make himself more comfortable before he began to speak.

After calling them with her warning, Nathiel hadn’t wasted much time with hand-wringing before disregarding Aziraphale and Crowley’s reassurances and running to raise the alarm. Cerviel had stepped up to the plate eagerly, before word had even reached anyone of higher rank.

Aziraphale had been pouring all his energy into Crowley’s wound in a futile battle to heal it when Cerviel had shown up with a small army at his back.

Though he’d arrived too late to assist in battle, he’d been of invaluable help nonetheless. While many of the Principalities he’d brought with him had paused to gape at Michael’s corpse, Cerviel had only spared it a single surprised glance before moving into action.

The Abominable Blade, as Aziraphale had taken to calling it, had indeed been too unstable to exist for long. It had remained intact just long enough for Cerviel and his militia to lay eyes on it and confirm its cursed existence to any doubters. Then Cerviel had the wisdom to yank the thing out of Michael’s body and toss it at light speed out of the atmosphere before it tore itself apart in a display of ethereal and occult fireworks that were not at all beautiful.

Aziraphale had barely registered the alarming display, focused as he was on trying - and failing - to keep the wound from spreading its poison throughout Crowley’s true form. But then Cerviel had dropped to his knees beside Crowley and added his own power to the effort. Another of the angels had followed suit, and then two more had forced Aziraphale gently away and taken his place when the exertion had started to become too taxing.

“Wait,” Crowley interrupted, his head spinning, “Why would they heal me? I’m a demon. And a wildcard, what with the whole holy water thing. You’d think they’d be happy enough to be rid of me.”

At this, Aziraphale turned a very interesting shade of red.

“Ah, well…” Aziraphale trailed off, shifting, his eyes darting away from Crowley and back again. Crowley just lifted his eyebrows further up his forehead and took a pointed sip of his tea.

Then Aziraphale finally crumbled, his whole face taking on an expression of pure mortification. 

“Cerviel’s a member of the _fan club_ ,” he admitted mournfully.

Crowley nearly choked.

“Your former _boss_ , the guy who practically staged a coup to hold the Archangels to account, is a member of Nathiel’s weird fan club about us.”

Aziraphale nodded, red to his ears. Crowley found himself torn between humiliation and hilarity, and promptly decided to lean into finding it all very very funny, if only to avoid the path of madness. A slow, mischievous smile spread over his face.

“You’re telling me that the ruler of the Principalities is gushing about us in private meetings with other angels, probably writing soppy fanfiction and-”

“Oh, don’t rub it in!” Aziraphale wailed, swatting Crowley lightly on the arm. He looked about ready to bury his face in the table and not come out for a century.

Crowley fought to contain his mirth.

“Do you want to hear the rest or not?” Aziraphale demanded huffily.

“Alright, alright, I’m listening, angel.”

Crowley put on his ‘best behavior face,’ fooling no one, but Aziraphale continued nonetheless.

It had taken the combined efforts of six angels, not including Aziraphale’s initial attempts, to finally halt the progression of the Abominable Blade’s corruption and siphon it out into the ether. After that, the bleeding had been easy enough to stop, the physical wound closing up agreeably, but the damage to Crowley’s true self had been done and was not so easily reversed. It would need to heal on its own, and no one had been able to tell Aziraphale how long that would take.

All Cerviel and the others had been able to do was reassure him that no further damage was occurring, and that Crowley was healing, albeit slowly. They’d helped Aziraphale put him to bed and left with promises to take care of matters Upstairs.

Cerviel had made such a loud stink about the whole thing that all of Heaven knew within a day what had happened. Some idiot from one of the upper Choirs had tentatively suggested they set Aziraphale to trial for Michael’s slaying, and he was subsequently set upon by a sea of outraged angels. Not only Cerviel and his troops, but also a large number of others who may or may not have _also_ been members of a certain illicit fan club. Of those who weren’t, a great many were still distinctly uneasy of the unsettling brand of tension Michael had so recently introduced in Heaven and were relieved to find they had not been wrong in their doubts. And of course, plenty on all sides were rightly concerned about prosecuting a Principality who could survive Hellfire and kill an Archangel, especially over a matter that could so clearly be chalked up to self-defense. All in all, the matter was dropped like a hot potato and unceremoniously kicked into the rubbish bin, never to be spoken of again.

The highest Choir had instead sent a Cherub down to Hell to inquire, officially, what the actual fuck Beelzebub had been thinking, authorizing one of their demons to curse a holy blade, and demanding to know how they’d made it stick. Beelzebub, who had authorized no such thing, had not been remotely amused.

The entire host of Hell was thankful that Beelzebub was saved some measure of embarrassment when a certain lowly demon who worked for Hastur proclaimed, bold as brass in front of the Cherub, that it had been Hastur responsible for the deed, and that he had been working outside of Hell’s authority. After a little questioning, this had appeased the Cherub well enough that he soon returned to Heaven to file the report, satisfied that Beelzebub would deal with their rogue agent.

Beelzebub had immediately turned on the lesser demon, who Aziraphale had finally found out was going by Craig-

“ _Craig_?!” Crowley interrupted again, affronted, only to be hushed.

_Craig_ had swiftly avoided the Prince’s wrath by pointing out, with practiced wide-eyed incredulity, that he had reported dutifully on Hastur’s recent unauthorized actions - all of them - through official channels, over many months. This had been confirmed when an irate and overwhelmed Dagon found each and every report buried in the huge pile on her desk, right where they ought to have been.

If Craig had forged them in a rush, broken into Dagon’s office and shoved them haphazardly into the pile, no one ever need know.

Hastur had been hiding somewhere in the depths, licking some Michael-inflicted wounds, when Beelzebub had _personally_ tracked him down. That Hastur had been more or less forced by the archangel to imbue the weapon with demonic power was of little consequence. That he hadn’t thought it would work at all, the success of it owed entirely to whatever esoteric knowledge Michael had unearthed, was of similarly little consequence. For his crimes (the utmost of which was humiliating Beelzebub in front of a Cherub), Hastur would be spending the next few centuries in the Pits.

Craig had been promoted, if only because no one else of any standing was available to pick up the slack left in Hastur’s absence, and there were four or five of Craig at any given time. Craig was thrilled, and had sent both Sabrathan and Nathiel surprisingly tasteful gift baskets from some online service (by courtesy of one very determined delivery man).

Officially, no one in Hell mentioned anything about either Crowley or Aziraphale having been targeted in this unauthorized drama. The official memo said only that a Duke had conspired with an Archangel without permission, failed to succeed in any aim beneficial to Hell, and gotten _caught_ , the moron. Unofficially, every last demon in all nine circles knew Nathiel’s version of the entire bloody saga within a week of Michael’s demise. 

This had two results. The first was that any demon who had still been quietly considering vengeance on Crowley quickly moved their priorities hard to the left. The second was that any demons who had been second-guessing their insubordination or had been planning to fall back in line with Hell’s status quo were reminded of just how incompetent their bosses could be when they were drowning in their own paperwork. This cemented their confidence in their ability to Get Away With It, and Hell was more of a hot mess than ever.

Crowley found all of this deeply satisfying. He made a mental note to keep Nathiel happy and on their side by whatever means necessary. And to get her something very nice and very expensive in appreciation.

Interestingly, a very large number of lower and mid-ranked angels had joined their demonic brethren in Bermuda. After some initial scuffles between the two factions, they had all mutually decided they were on holiday and agreed not to bring work into it. The only fights still breaking out were drunken arguments over whether or not it was a proper margarita without a salted rim, or whether or not it was socially appropriate to play the Beach Boys on endless repeat. Bermuda had become a neutral zone. The higher-ups of either realm still wouldn’t sign off on it, but there was a mulish sullenness about their refusal that held no righteous or infernal weight behind it.

Crowley was incredulous at this news.

“I can’t bloody believe it. I know the failed Armageddon has them all out of sorts, but we’re talking about whole hosts of angels suddenly… _disobeying_. A not insignificant number are _supporting us_! How did this happen?”

It had dawned on Crowley previously that the existence of the infamous fan club was an intriguing social development, but he’d envisioned it as some very closeted thing made up of a small handful of bizarrely open-minded angels. He’d imagined them as angels who probably worked in Earth-related departments and had gone just native enough to know terms like _star-crossed_. Instead, it turned out there were enough members to hold weight in an argument amongst the Host. And how did it come to pass that so many others, not quite so charmed by Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship, nonetheless followed suit in this little insubordination?

Aziraphale looked decidedly shifty.

“I, ah… Well, I found out that’s mostly my fault,” he said, averting his eyes with a fetching little flush and taking a sip of his cooling tea. 

Crowley leaned forward across the table and looked at him intently when he failed to continue immediately. “ _Aziraphale_...”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, but put down the cup.

“When I was discorporated, when the bookshop burned...” Aziraphale hesitated. “Well, when I was in Heaven, the Quartermaster was trying to get me to lead my platoon for Armageddon, and I argued with him. I told him I needed to get back to Earth, but he told me I couldn’t do so without a body. He said, “What are you going to do? You can’t possess them.” As if it were a fact. But that’s precisely what gave me the idea that I _could_ , and so... Well, I said-”

Aziraphale fiddled with his pinky ring, flushing.

“What did you say?” Crowley prompted, practically on the edge of his seat.

“I said, _demons_ can. I said it in front of an entire regiment of angels ready for battle! They saw me ignore the Quartermaster’s protests that I wasn’t a demon and- and I went right back to Earth without permission. And they figured out soon enough that I must have succeeded, even though it was such an accepted _fact_ that angels can’t do that sort of thing...”

“Oh,” exhaled Crowley, sitting back in his seat in amazement. “You got them _thinking_.”

Aziraphale nodded, a tad guiltily. “They might not have thought _much_ of it, or at all of it really, except the world didn’t end. Armageddon was cancelled and they knew it had something to do with me interfering. And with _you_ too. I’d defied Heaven, teamed up with a demon, and done things we were always told angels couldn’t or shouldn’t do, and I didn’t Fall for it. If I had done anything wrong in _Her_ eyes, I rightly _should_ have Fallen, but I didn’t.”

Crowley let out a low whistle as he understood.

“You accidentally showed them that in this case, Heaven’s will was not _Hers_. And that things they’d accepted as dogma were not always true.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale finally stopped fiddling with his ring, looking at it as if taken aback to find himself doing so. “But then the Archangels supposedly banished me for my actions anyway.”

“And that’s what kicked this all off. But then Nathiel spilled the beans that they’d really tried to _execute_ you in Hellfire, after making a deal with _Hell_...”

Aziraphale nodded.

“A great many of them have come to the conclusion that Heaven’s will was so far out of line with the Almighty’s that She intervened directly to save us,” Aziraphale confirmed, his eyes flickering upward in embarrassed, silent apology. “I haven’t corrected them, of course, but… Well, neither has She. It’s caused pandemonium. Or at least, Heaven’s definition of it. They’re all still queuing neatly and filing their paperwork, of course.”

Crowley snorted involuntarily. A smile of genuine amusement spread across Aziraphale’s face in response.

“So the angels of Heaven have finally lost some measure of blind obedience and are giving paid leave a proper go. And the remaining management will need to tread carefully to regain lost trust.” Would wonders never cease. Crowley slumped further in his chair, some residual tension seeping away. “Are we finally in the clear, then?”

It would be nice, Crowley thought, if everything were wrapped up neatly in a bow and they could be assured that they were safe now. But a little wrinkle appeared between Aziraphale’s brows as he rose to clear away the tea. Crowley moved to help him but he was waved back down.

“In an official capacity, more or less, I should think. Unfortunately, there are still some loose ends. No one can find Sandalphon. Wherever he’s gone, he’s done a thorough job of covering his tracks. I certainly hope we won’t need to concern ourselves with him in the future, but I think he was more loyal to Gabriel than he ever was to Heaven. But Uriel turned herself in. Guilty conscience.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Guilty conscience? Since when?”

“As she tells it, she had been under the impression that Gabriel and Michael’s actions were sanctioned. They never said as much directly, but she trusted them implicitly. She never considered that they might take any action without authorization, especially such extreme action.” Aziraphale smiled sadly. “There’s that unquestioning obedience for you.”

“And you buy that? You think she’s telling the truth?” It was plain that Aziraphale did, but Crowley wanted to know why.

“I do,” Aziraphale answered thoughtfully. “Nathiel and Cerviel both told me, independently of one another, that Uriel said when she discovered she’d acted in defiance of the will of the Host, she panicked and fled. She’d never been in any kind of trouble before and all evidence suggests she just didn’t know how to cope with it. Nathiel got her hands on her file and it seems to be the truth; there’s not so much as a simple reprimand on her record, ever. Not until now.”

Crowley offered a grunt that might have been disgusted or impressed. “That’s quite a first offense. What’s going to happen to her, then?”

Aziraphale shrugged with one shoulder, looking a tad bemused. “Probably nothing more serious than a demotion. As you say, it’s her first offense. Her _very_ first. And she did it in ignorance, because she trusted her superiors. Trust is a virtue. They’ll go easy on her.”

Crowley frowned. “Are you okay with that?”

The edge of Aziraphale’s lips quirked up wryly, and Crowley knew the answer before he said it.

“I’m willing to accept their judgement,” he said, drying his hands on the dishcloth.

Keeping his hands busy was something Aziraphale did when he was uncomfortable. Fiddling with his ring was his usual habit, his tell, but Crowley had made the mistake of pointing it out one night when they were drunk and now Aziraphale had become conscious of it. Every attempt to break himself of the habit so far had resulted in falling back onto other behaviors that were even more telling, like doing the dishes by hand instead of miracling them clean. Crowley carefully did not mention it.

Crowley rose from his seat, happy that his sore hip was still cooperating, and wrapped Aziraphale in his arms.

“So she’s going to get off easy for blindly doing the wrong thing when you’ve gotten no end of grief for trying so hard to always do the right one. And you’re not going to kick up a fuss about it because you’ve been too worried about me to care, and you’re just not that wrathful anyway. Is that about the shape of it?”

Aziraphale made a little noise of frustration or exasperation and let his head drop to Crowley’s shoulder with a great release of breath.

“You know me too well,” he groused softly. “I suppose that’s why I’m so terribly fond of you.”

Crowley kissed his head and let his cheek rest there, content.

“Feeling’s mutual, angel.”

Nathiel came around the next day and Crowley was forced to keep her enthusiasm in check when she saw him up and about. He could only just handle the fan club, he was drawing the line at hugs.

He might also have been just a little put out that she’d chosen to show up right when he and Aziraphale had really settled into a nice, languid snogging session on the couch.

Much to his consternation, Cerviel, accompanied by two Principalities, knocked on the door not twenty minutes later in the middle of tea. Crowley suddenly found himself surrounded by angels in his own home and making strained introductions with Cerviel, who looked torn between being pleased as punch to finally meet him properly and wanting to ask sternly what Crowley’s intentions were. The impression was not helped by Cerviel’s corporation, which looked distinctly like someone’s middle-aged American father who kept fit and probably owned a shotgun.

Sensing Crowley’s distress, Aziraphale steered Cerviel and the two angels who accompanied him into a conversation about the state of Heaven for Principalities these days and how the restructuring was going, leaving Crowley to entertain Nathiel.

“So, how’s our favorite queen of gossip, then?” he asked, pouring some more Jammie Dodgers onto her plate and refreshing her tea. She accepted both with a smile.

“They finally figured out I was either the source or the arbiter of all the home truths burning their way through Heaven. For all they can be slow-moving at the best of times, they’re not stupid.”

Crowley frowned stormily. “You in trouble about it?”

He’d see about that. Aziraphale would too, he was sure. If Nathiel could kick up a fuss on their behalf without half knowing them, they would absolutely return the favor. But Nathiel smirked coyly in response.

“Actually, they offered me a promotion. Junior management in one of the higher Choirs.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I gushed about what an honor it was, but then told them how much I loved my job, pulled the humble card and refused. They were really put out about it, too.”

Crowley stared. It wasn’t hard for him, considering he didn’t blink much, but this was distinctly a stare and not just making eye contact during conversation.

“Wait, what? Why?”

Nathiel flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? They can’t outright punish me with the current atmosphere in Heaven. So the promotion was a cover for them to shuffle me off into a department that was out of the way, where I’d be under the direct supervision of an upper manager. Harder to spread _gossip_ that way, you know? Sadly for them, I’m pretty much _running_ the Corporations department these days, have been for centuries. They can’t push me too hard because they need to play nice in case they ever need a new body.”

She took a delicate, pointed sip of her tea and Crowley grinned, wolfish. 

“Cheers to _that_ , then,” he offered, raising his cup. She mirrored the motion with an answering grin, and then Crowley took to quizzing her subtly about what sorts of Earth things she was fond of. He still had a very expensive gift to buy her.

By the time the angels wrapped up their stay, Crowley was more at ease. Cerviel still looked vaguely like he wanted to interrogate Crowley and simultaneously ask for his autograph, but they’d managed some decent conversation as a group that had taken the edge off. The two Principalities, Sraosha and Rachmiel, had exchanged some earnest pleasantries with Crowley but spent most of the time distracted by their very first tea and biscuits. They’d tried different varieties at Aziraphale’s insistence and ended up debating the relative merits of English Breakfast versus Chai.

Crowley bet tea would be a _thing_ in Heaven by the end of the week. He wondered if anyone in the upper Choirs would have a breakdown when angels started bringing back souvenirs from Bermuda. Tea was one thing, but rum...

His musings were interrupted by Cerviel, who was clasping Aziraphale’s shoulders in a friendly manner as he took his leave. 

“Remember, don’t be a stranger,” he was saying, “Now that all this fuss is cleared up, it’d be nice if you found the time to pop Upstairs occasionally and say hello.” 

Aziraphale was nodding agreeably, looking brightly content. Crowley felt something uneasy bloom in his stomach and settle there.

When everyone was gone and it was just the two of them again, Aziraphale wasted no time in wrapping Crowley up in his arms, intent on picking up where they’d left off. But Crowley hugged him all the tighter and buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly, fingers in Crowley’s hair.

“They’re not mad at you anymore,” he muttered into his angel’s shoulder. “You could go back to Heaven, if you wanted to. Ask for your old assignment back, pick up where you left off.”

It was all true. Aziraphale could do so, and the angels would scramble to grant him his request, and they’d be relieved that Aziraphale was still officially on their side, fighting the good fight now that the _real_ rogue elements had been dealt with. They’d all pat themselves on the back for a job well done and feel vindicated.

They wouldn’t even begrudge Aziraphale his relationship with Crowley, probably, as too many of them considered it as good as endorsed by Herself and Herself hadn’t spoken up to say anything to the contrary. (Crowley still wasn’t sure how to feel about that.) It would be centuries before someone was brave enough to bring it up again. He should have been happy for Aziraphale, but he just felt cold at the whole prospect.

But Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s chin and looked into his eyes.

“My _dearest_ ,” he said fondly, an achingly sweet expression settling across his face, just for Crowley, “Why ever would I?” 

He pressed a soft kiss to the furrow between Crowley’s brows. Crowley felt the lines of it smooth away, tension sweeping from him as if in a gentle breeze. Aziraphale smiled.

“I’m already home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! I've left some room open for a sequel, but it'll be some time before I can consider seriously sitting down and hashing out a plot. Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, I appreciate each and every one of you.

**Author's Note:**

> This was 100% not beta read, so feel free to rake me over the coals if you find any egregious errors. I'm [ohblessit](https://ohblessit.tumblr.com) on tumblr, feel free to hit me up! My ask box is open.


End file.
